Chapter 15
Lowell could not recall a time when he was enamored with the City of Light.
That Paris thing was strictly Justine’s, before it hooked their daughter too.
And, after two days of killing time on the Left Bank, he was ready to bolt again, though he managed to smile and do whatever Chelsea wanted.
It wasn’t much. She refused to venture too far from the hotel. What if Paul suddenly came to find her?
To escape their small room, Lowell loitered in the lobby and sipped coffee in the café.
If he’d been a drinking man he would have probably spent too much time in the bar.
He was really sick of the hotel. The guests were obnoxious tourists, most of them Americans trying to act French as they cooed their mercis and butchered their bonjours.
As if their high school French opened the doors to some level of chicness.
The staff patiently replied in perfect English and rolled their eyes when the guests weren’t looking.
There were a lot of newlyweds, and Lowell grew weary of their gaiety and groping.
Only days earlier, he had escorted his daughter, the most beautiful bride in the world, down the aisle.
Now she was upstairs hiding in a dark room and praying her new husband was safe.
Did the criminals stalk these same newlyweds? How did they select Paul and Chelsea? Were some of these pretty young couples being watched and evaluated? The questions seemed absurd but would not go away.
When Chelsea ventured from her room, they walked the same streets, browsed the same stores, and ate at the same sidewalk cafés, all within five minutes of the hotel.
And, after an hour, she insisted on returning to her room.
Lowell parked himself in the lobby like a sentry or a Doberman and tried to keep his face hidden behind a magazine to ignore the other guests.
He called Justine for an update, though there was virtually nothing to report.
He called Fritz, who said everything appeared to be on track.
At 3 p.m. Wednesday, a text message pinged his cell phone. In one hour, Chelsea will go to the Church St. Sulpice, in the sixth arrondissement. She will sit and wait in the rear, 20 rows to the left, under the statue of Christ on the cross. Paul will arrive later.
Lowell suddenly shook with fear and apprehension. He forgot about everything but collecting Paul and taking him home.
—
Fritz and Linzy entered the bank’s corporate offices shortly after 9 a.m. Eastern time.
They had spoken to the proper vice president at least a dozen times in the past two days and everything was supposed to be in order.
Fritz had even apologized for being tedious, but the “situation” was of extreme urgency, whatever it was.
The VP was curious but soon realized that whatever was driving the “situation” was none of his business.
His clients had rounded up a lot of money and he would dutifully send it off to wherever they wanted.
At 9:30, a text arrived on Linzy’s cell phone. At 10 a.m. eastern, wire by EWT $2 million to: Zurich Bank, 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY, routing number PY44-7239-NN22, account number 88-06578-30633, debit to SnuFad999, London. Do you understand?
With Fritz watching, she typed: “Please verify Paul is safe.”
They waited and kept waiting. Finally: You have a choice. Chelsea can see Paul walk to freedom in a matter of minutes, or you can see a photo of Paul with his throat cut.
They thought they were too calloused for more threats, but at that moment they knew for certain that such a photo was possible. Linzy quickly typed: “Understood.”
What else were they supposed to do? As if they had options.
The VP filled in some forms. His printer spewed them forth. Fritz and Linzy slashed signatures here and there, and at 10 a.m., their $2 million vanished into thin air.
—
The Church of Saint-Sulpice was almost as vast as Notre-Dame, but not nearly as famous or elegant.
Like most Catholic churches in Europe, it dated back centuries and was filled with history.
Lowell and Chelsea inched across its ancient stone tiles, looking at tombs, vaults, and crypts, and admiring the masterpieces of Delacroix, just a couple of tourists whispering somberly as a handful of the faithful bowed nearby in the pews and offered their quiet prayers.
At 3:50, Lowell pecked her on the cheek and squeezed her tight.
Following instructions, Chelsea sat in a wooden chair on the twentieth row, left side, under the crucifixion.
Lowell left through the main door, hustled down the twelve marble steps without looking around, walked by the massive fountain with religious figures spewing water in all directions, and assumed his position at a sidewalk table at the Bar St. Pre.
He was across the street from the church and had a full view of the busy plaza.
He could monitor the foot traffic in and out of the church, though he was not naive enough to think that Paul would simply saunter in off the street and enter through the main door.
Lowell figured “they” knew the side doors and hidden exits in the cavernous building.
Paul would somehow appear miraculously and whisper to his new wife.
Lowell sent texts to Sam and Fritz and reported they were in position, as instructed.
—
Chelsea resisted the urge to turn and look in the direction of voices.
There were the hushed whispers of tourists, the slightly louder sound of a German guide leading a small group, and somewhere deep in an annex a choir was rehearsing.
She gazed at the vaulted, soaring ceilings, built centuries ago, and wondered again why such wealth and ornateness was needed to worship God.
Let it go—issues for another day.
At the moment she needed God in her own way and closed her eyes to pray.
She should have been frightened but she was not. Very much alone, away from her father, her protector, vulnerable again, with the sore arms and legs to remind her of the injections that had kept her unconscious. She felt the presence of God and knew she was safe.
Because of Justine, Chelsea had been baptized into the Episcopal Church.
Justine’s family was active and devout, and through the early years of her marriage she faithfully attended services with her children at least once a month.
Less so for Lowell. Chelsea had enjoyed a youth group until she went to college, where she found it much easier to sleep late on Sunday mornings.
Paul described himself as a “lapsed Methodist.” The Tanner family’s minister handled their wedding ceremony and charmed the crowd.
It seemed like years ago.
Paul would touch her. He would emerge from the darkened passageways that ringed the sanctuary and, without a sound, touch her shoulder and whisper her name. Her world would be right again.
The church bells rang at 4 p.m. Chelsea opened her eyes and waited.
Across the street Lowell listened to the loud clanging, which, as usual, seemed thoroughly unnoticed by the pedestrians.
He wouldn’t have noticed either but now the bells meant everything.
It was time for action, for something dramatic, for the miracle.
He sipped coffee and watched the front of the church, waiting for the happy couple to come bounding down the steps hand in hand.
A minute passed, then two. Chelsea closed her eyes again and prayed like never before. Time became a blur as more of it crept by.
At 4:15, Lowell looked at his watch and ordered another espresso.
For the first time, he allowed himself to doubt whether it would happen.
But then he had little trouble rationalizing the delay.
They were in a huge crowded city where schedules did not always matter and delays were common.
And the criminals were attempting a handoff that was logistically challenging, right?
Of course there would be a delay.
He thought of his daughter, sitting in there alone, waiting, dying minute by minute.
He saw a face he’d seen before. Across the street, in the middle of the plaza, near the fountain, the man glanced at him for the second or third time.
He wore a brown Irish flat cap that would have been nondescript but for the fact that Lowell had seen it yesterday, somewhere near the hotel.
Did it really matter anymore? He had assumed for days that someone was always watching, and he didn’t care anymore. Nothing was important but Paul.
Chelsea wiped her eyes, bit her lip, and reminded herself that Paul was a tough guy, a former serviceman who could handle anything. He loved her and would find her. He was probably out there on the streets racing to the church to collect his bride.
At 4:30, Lowell texted Fritz and Sam: Still waiting, no word, nothing to report.
Sitting still became difficult. Lowell wanted to hurry across the street and enter the church for a peek at his daughter.
Was she sitting alone, or had Paul joined her in a glorious reunion?
They could be holding hands and wiping tears.
All that coffee didn’t help him. As a surgeon he usually went light on the caffeine.
Now he was about to jump out of his skin.
He flagged the waiter and paid his bill.
Chelsea wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. She had stopped watching every person who came close and now withdrew deeper into herself. Her miracle was slowly dissipating. When the bells rang at five she began to weep.
Without a sound, Lowell sat beside her and patted her leg. She leaned on his shoulder and cried harder. When she caught her breath she said, “He’s not coming, is he?”
“It doesn’t look good, dear.”
“What are we going to do?”
One of many questions with no answer. “Keep praying,” he said, but only because he had to say something.
Chelsea knew that from that moment on, her future would be quite different from the one she and Paul had dreamed of.
They had been separated for a week, and now that separation would continue for another week, then a month, then perhaps forever.
She could face it with a flood of emotion and bitterness, or she could resolve to be strong and never lose hope.
She fought away the bitterness and tried to ignore the dull, painful aching of unimaginable loss.
“I guess we should call the Tanners,” she said.
Lowell said, “No, let’s wait, just a few more minutes.”
“I’ll wait forever, but he’s not coming. Paul is never late.”
“Perhaps he’s not in control now, dear. Just a little longer.” He patted her knee and she clutched his arm.
By 5:30, the sanctuary was empty and the lights were dimming. A deacon in a white robe approached and said softly, “S’il vous pla?t, l’église est fermée.” Please, the church is closing.
They sat outside on the marble steps and took in the plaza and the fountain. The man with the flat Irish cap was gone and Lowell did not mention him. Why bother?
They were too devastated to move or think or say much. Silently, both fantasized that Paul would suddenly materialize out of the air and run to them. Chelsea touched her eyes with a tissue. Lowell questioned every move they had made in the past week. He said, “We need to make some calls.”
“I need to talk to my mother.”
“She’s waiting, dear. I’ll call Fritz and Linzy.”
“Those poor people.”